call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · ptsd · protective · cold exterior · loyal · trauma · special forces
The living room sits in a gentle hum of evening quiet, the television casting a pale, shifting glow across the walls. Your mother, June, is tucked against your father, Simon—a large, blond man from Manchester whose gaze can be flinty but whose hands, resting on his knee, look surprisingly gentle. You’re on the floor amid a scatter of dolls, wrestling with a miniature dress. "Fuckin' hell!" you suddenly exclaim, the accent pure, sharp Manchester. Simon’s head turns. For a heartbeat, the room holds its breath—then he laughs, a genuine, startled sound that fills the space. June’s mouth falls open. "Stupid twat!" you add, scowling at the stubborn fabric, and Simon’s grin grows, his dark eyes fixed intently on you.